


Darts

by aurorae



Category: Hunter X Hunter
Genre: Emotional Manipulation, Emotional/Psychological Abuse, M/M, Possessive Behavior, serenade me with killuas unhappiness
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-18
Updated: 2014-08-18
Packaged: 2018-02-13 08:11:12
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,349
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2143464
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aurorae/pseuds/aurorae
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Illumi teaches Killua how to play darts.</p>
<p>Killua returns the favor.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Darts

**Author's Note:**

> lets pretend illumi _isnt_ immune to electricity ok y/y
> 
> [who wants a recommended listening for the mood of this nonsense](http://8tracks.com/book-wyrm/it-s-too-quiet)

The pungent odor of decay perpetuated from the makeshift bed of warm, vibrant leaves concealing the skeletal remains of withered bodies infested by wriggling, bulbous larva and swarms of buzzing mosquitoes allured by the grisly aroma, the fresh succulent blood smeared the severed arm idly being consumed by the Zoldyck guard dog. Mike tore off a chunk of the thick skin to nibble on the interior, cracking the calcium fortified organ to extract the marrow from his recent victim, who lay lifeless beneath his reddened, dampened paw. The hound set the limb down to obediently turn his head, his large black eyes observing one of his owners greeting him in a casual, flat tenor, cradling an infant situated on his forearm.

Illumi shifted his elbow to further accommodate his one-year old brother’s comfort, with his free hand he adjusted the knitted hat atop his younger brother’s hair, tucking in the loose silver locks peeking out of the folded hem, and tugged at the sides of the fabric to cover the tips of Killua’s ears, which had gradually delved to a lightly dusted pink from the wispy winds of the chilly November afternoon. Before Illumi proceeded to complete his mother’s request, he hooked his finger into the baby blue fleece muffler woven around his brother’s neck and carefully pulled it to one side, then he glided his finger over the scarf to repeat his action on the other end. Although his brother’s doe blue eyes expressed a glint of frustration being confined within multiple layers of clothing earlier in the afternoon, Illumi disregarded the brief flit of hostility and patiently tolerated the cries of protest ringing in his ears.

Illumi blinked in neutral countenance as the material of his green sweater was fisted by his sibling’s kitten patterned mittens. Killua finally looked over his shoulder, his eagerness to absorb his orange streaked surroundings diminished as his vision aligned with Mike’s fixed gaze bearing visible reflections of both himself and Illumi. The distinct absence of human-like semblance was an unfamiliar experience to Killua that provoked both a feeling of alarm and panic in his diminutive body, he hid his face in the crook of his sibling’s neck, and his low, almost inaudible whimpers were muffled by his scarf.

Anticipating a fearful reaction from his startled brother, who unlike him was unaccustomed to the realms of beasts with such an unruly appearance, Illumi heaved a heavy sigh through his nose and paced around in circles. In an attempt to alleviate Killua’s frazzled apprehension, he pressed his palm flat against the back of Killua’s bubble coat, patting him soothingly as he jiggled his arm. The motion soon rewarded him with a relieving respite as the child’s hunched, stiffened shoulders regained their relaxed posture. “Mike will not hurt you, Kil,” he assured as he pried Killua off him and crouched for a second to set him on the ground, the leaves crackling beneath his tiny boots. Illumi held his brother by the hand to guide Killua forward, his scrawny legs wobbling from the mingled amount of anxiety and lack of full mobility in his steps.

Illumi released his grip to place Killua in front of the hound, and although he could not stand erect for more than a few seconds, Illumi provided his assistance to settle his sibling into a seating position in front of the purple creature intently observing him, the long snout of the hound within reach.

Four to five minutes passed like an endless eternity before Illumi drew the conclusion that Killua would refuse to prevail over his fright. He weighed his options: wait a few more minutes, or yield to his failure and cradle Killua once again in his return home—in the recesses of his mind, he acknowledged that he had not failed completely: his mother insisted on the necessity for Killua to be recognized by Mike before the weather worsened, yet the outcome of their interaction was of little interest to her—regardless he had to resume his schedule to tuck Killua into his crib before his father could relay the instructions for another mission. His thoughts gravitated to the time he had spent preparing the formula for Killua’s bottles—to the family’s dismay, Killua would often toss his bottles against the wall when someone other than his eldest sibling attempted to feed him despite their, or specifically Kikyo’s, coos encouraging the infant to accept his meal—however, the slightest stir had roused his attention, and Illumi watched with wide and unblinking eyes as Killua tentatively stroked the fur beneath Mike’s jaw.

After Killua had seized his chance to interact with the family’s guard dog, Illumi slipped his hands under his brother’s arms, cradling him close to his chest as he carried him back to the mansion. Illumi politely greeted the family patriarchs with a nod before trailing into the kitchen, where he plopped Killua into his high chair to then hurriedly prepare a handful of bottles for his grandfather—Zeno, apart from Silva, had the least difficulty handling his grandson’s temperament, although there was one particular occurrence when Killua adamantly refused to drink his meal and squeezed the base of his bottle, causing the formula to burst through the rubber teat and onto the bridge of his grandfather's hooked nose—and at the instance of his chore reaching its completion, he rolled his shoulders to lessen the tension centered between his shoulder blades. He eventually catered to Killua’s restless squeaks by removing the tray from his booster seat and folding his arm over Killua’s waist to carry him back to his room.

“Do not injure mother this time,” he said as he pressed his shoulder against the bedroom door. At a quickened pace, he strode inside the darkened room and leaned over the bars of the crib to set Killua atop his comforter. Averting his attention from the illuminated electronic clock resting on Killua’s coloring table, Illumi shook the bottle one last time before perching himself on his tippy toes and leaning over the bars, mildly fascinated yet appalled at the sight of his sibling guzzling down the offered formula leaking from the corners of his mouth.

The exhausting, tedious process of feeding his baby brother lasted for numerous ongoing months, yet the family acknowledged that Killua was never seen—or at least seen content—without clinging to his shoulders or leg, or else he would be reduced to loud, wailing sobs and other violent tendencies, like snatching his toys and hurling them across the room. Zeno assured Illumi that as Killua aged, he would establish his persona and become independent, eventually becoming less dependent on Illumi and the rest of the Zoldyck family.

Yet, even as he grew older, Killua was still attached to his oldest brother.

At the age of four, Killua declared the playroom as his favorite place to occupy the entirety of his days in: he could convince Illumi—whom was often tasked with the responsibility to maintain a watchful eye of his sibling—to rock his wooden horse while he rode on it, or if Illumi felt more inclined to sit on the floor, Killua would direct an order for him to remain motionless so he could run his toy cars over the length of Illumi’s arms, over his joints, over his head, and the whirring sounds he made to imitate a moving vehicle transitioned to a ‘swoosh’ as the plastic car descended down a slope – or the other shoulder. His mischievous nature dictated that every so often, when he trailed his toy cars over a shoulder, he would make a sharp turn to lead the toy over Illumi’s neck, over his chin, the rigid plastic of the wheels exasperatingly digging into his lips, nose, and eyelids.

To his disappointment, Illumi never reacted, nor did his expression indicate his withering patience; he only reprimanded him half-heartedly—when Killua retrieved his markers from his toy chest, he scribbled on Illumi’s slumbering face, unstirred by the tips of the markers pressing against his cheeks. When Illumi was jostled awake by Zeno entering the playroom to remind the pair that dinner was prepared, the elderly Zoldyck raised an eyebrow as he pointed at his oldest grandson’s face, his finger twirling in circles to encourage Illumi to check his condition. Illumi regarded Killua with an owlish stare after he wiped the brown squiggly line of ink smeared under his nose, and in a leveled tenor he told him, “That was improper, Kil.”—or tolerated the juvenile antics without losing his practiced composure.

Killua was fascinated by a new game in which, rather than utilizing the equipment that was provided for the new toy, Illumi fiddled with his needles before aiming at a red, green, and black board, aligned with rings displaying a series of numbers. Abandoning his sandcastle by tossing the pail and shovel aside, he scampered toward Illumi’s occupied corner and tugged on the sleeve of his green sweater to claim his attention. “’Lumi, ‘Lumi! Can I play?”

“You might hurt yourself,” his brother informed him, tossing another yellow needle in the direction of the board, which struck its center.

Killua, however, did not relent. “No, I won’t!” he insisted as he snatched the plastic baggie storing the darts his brother had neglected. He shoved his hand inside to grab a handful of its contents before retracting the empty hand with a hiss, the darts tumbled onto the playroom floor as he released the bag to inspect his finger.

Alarmed, Illumi kneeled to Killua’s level, snatching his wrist to search for the injury. The visible tension straining his arm relaxed as soon as he found one tiny bead of blood forming on the pad of his little brother’s finger. Aware of Killua’s outright, unwavering stubbornness, he conceded defeat by drawing a chair beside him to sit in before hoisting Killua atop his lap, then he rested his chin on Killua’s bony shoulder and instructed the ordinance of the game into his ear in a hushed, warm whisper. In a languid movement, Illumi pressed one of his needles between Killua’s right pointer and thumb, then he drifted his hand over the back of Killua’s palm, helping him land a bull’s eye on the first attempt to indulge his little brother’s overzealous enthusiasm.

Killua expressed a raging frustration when either the darts or needles strayed too far from the innermost ring of the board, however when his aims drew closer to the middle rather than the outermost section, he would break into a fit of excited hops, tugging on the hem of Illumi’s clothes to flaunt his success—“’Lumi! Did you see me, did you see me?! Did you see me do that?!” he would announce, appeasing his self-gratification by forcing Illumi to study his aims or praise his attempts – in the course of a few weeks, he was able to land the sharp instruments on the center, with only a few faulty shots littered around the rim of the innermost ring.

“'M getting really good at this!” he declared ecstatically as Illumi cleared the board for him.

Nodding, Illumi plucked another needle off the dart board.

“I bet I can do this with my eyes closed, ‘Lumi!”

“That would not be the wisest decis-“ but he was cut off midsentence. Illumi presumed Killua had no malicious intentions to exemplify his skills, but as he moved his hand to pluck the last dart, the sharp end of the newly shot needle plunged deep in the centermost back of his palm: Killua had struck him.

As soon as Killua eagerly reopened his eyes, he spotted the makeshift dart embedded in Illumi’s skin, his boyish grin raised at the corners deflated into a horrified grimace, yet Illumi paid him no regard, rather he invested his focus on the injury he sustained. The tense atmosphere between the pair was disrupted when Illumi let his arm return to his side, his padding footsteps jostling a reaction from Killua—the rims of his eyes were lined with a sheen of tears, his mouth quivering to form words, which trailed into incoherent mumbles—but he was incapable of forming an apology for his reckless behavior.

“You landed a dart where the center of the board would have been.” Plucking the needle off his hand and aimlessly tossing it aside, Illumi ruffled Killua’s hair. “You are a natural, Kil.”

* * *

As Killua aged in the passing years, he chose to seclude himself in various sections of the estate. The happiness he felt on an hourly basis as a child dwindled, as did the frequency of his smiles, when he came to the realization that he was surrounded by family members who either agitated him or treated him like an unfeeling machine, made solely to succeed at assassinations, and watched by the blank eyes of his eldest brother who, without hesitation, would remind him in a sickly lulling manner to maintain his focus on the target rather than his surroundings. His awareness of his brother’s attentive and controlling nature raised the hairs on the back of his neck, and a wave of nausea lingered in the pit of his belly as he recollected his juvenile behavior: squeaking happily when offered a ride on his sibling’s back, waiting patiently by the living room window for Illumi’s figure to approach—often with a box of treats—then enveloping his arms around Illumi’s neck upon his arrival, bursting into a fit of giggles when he felt fingers prod at his sides or under the pits of his arms.

Killua lost track of how many times he woke up in the middle of the night, his fringes matted on his sweat drenched forehead, heaving heavy gasps at the nightmares plaguing his sleep. The same results were produced and relived: he felt paralyzed, helpless to prevent a couple of children from extending their friendly invitations, only to be subsequently deformed and murdered, crying in agony at their fates predetermined to be shortened simply by speaking a few words to the youngest member of the Zoldyck family. Illumi was more than willing to ingrain an example into his head as a constant reminder that a friend, any friend, would share the same fate – to Killua’s horror, on the few nights when he trusted that he was alone in his dark room, the dim light of the moon filtering through the blinds would expose Illumi standing in his room, often leaning against the wall, sometimes seated on a spare chair,

or looming directly over him.

His heart leaped in his throat as he scrambled to his bed frame, panicking as he was forced to acknowledge the trap Illumi laid for him as his back pressed against the wall, and to ease his frazzled, spiked anxiety he tucked in his legs, shaking fingers clenching the hem of his blanket. With a tremble in his voice, Killua feebly clamored, “Why…why are you even h-here?! G-Get out…! ”

“I was concerned.” His tone was absent of the claimed emotion.

“What do you _want_ , Illumi?” he hissed vehemently.

“To keep my cute little brother company. It pains me to hear you shout in your sleep.”

Killua bore his teeth. “Don’t want it, don’t need it.”

Illumi hummed, his mood and tenor undeterred. “Who said you have a choice in the matter, Kil?”

Killua’s hissed protest of meek, futile resistance tailed into a mutter, and he held his breath when Illumi leaned forward, one hand pressed flat on the bed to support his weight, the other hovering over his face before resting on his cheek. Illumi wiped the trickling trails of sweat with his thumb, from the light of the moon's dull gleam, he distinguished the fading scars littered on Killua’s protruding clavicle exposed by the oversized plain shirt sagging off his shoulder, the collar dampened by his body’s perspiration.

“Perhaps I should speak with Milluki over his use of crops, mother will become upset if the discoloration remains,” Illumi withdrew his hand from his sibling's face to yank the blanket off, dismissing his agitation when he steeled his grip on Killua's ankle, and shot a frown of disapproval over the injuries he sustained had yet faded, “this will not do at all.”

_“Thanks for the consideration_ ,” he seethed, swatting the hand away.

“Of course, Kil. Now go ahead and rest, you might be able to sleep soundly this time,” he paused thoughtfully before adding, “you should know by now you are incapable of saving anyone.”

Killua clenched his eyes shut as Illumi bridged the gap between them, the bed creaking under his palm, the soft kiss planted on the tip of his nose made his heart constrict painfully in his chest to endure the words echoing like a mantra in his mind:

“Your companionship will be _your friend's_ demise.”

_Cross my heart,_

Killua scuffled through the hallways of his victim’s home, busily he juggled one severed head coating his fingers red, his eyes drew moodily half-lidded: the grandeur space of the condominium had posed as a nuisance to finish his task at a hastier pace. His blatant disinterest in his mission led his mind astray as he entered the living room, the ambient sounds of chuckles had his heart accelerating as he caught sight of two boys his age with their backs turned, their focus fixated on the television screen, the flickering images of the cinematic scene in their video game was interrupted by their idle chatter and inputs.

Killua pressed himself against the wall of the hallway, the shadow cast on his body provided him an adequate last minute respite to conceal himself from the children blissfully unaware of the intruder prowling the household. Gulping the lump caught in his throat, Killua cursed under his breath when he peered into the living room: the only entryway to any room beyond the ones he had searched was past the pair playfully shouting at one another to pursue their character into the medical unit of the monster-ridden facility to search for weapons.

After a long, dragging moment, Killua set the severed head on the hardwood floor, opting to discard the proof of the mission to trek onward, he situated himself behind the sofa to sit and discreetly participate in their sheer happiness by listening to their inane conversations that steadily released the burden weighing his shoulders down. He seized the single opportunity a task has ever granted him: to settle in their friendly atmosphere by cupping his hand against his mouth to muffle his gentle chuckle – little to no sound was ever produced when he laughed, he realized,

in a large mansion with a set number people, the atmosphere families radiated in his television shows was absent in his household,

he had forgotten the last time he was able to wholeheartedly laugh in the presence of others.

Their cheery moods were droned by the sound of their sleepy murmurs, the music of their video game delved into a grisly melody over the death of their characters, the screen offering the option for the two snoozing children to replay the stage. Killua poked his head out of the corner of the sofa, heaving a sigh through his nose that he could freely roam around, although the disappointment resurfaced when the boys were allured by a realm of sleep rather than continuously speaking throughout the night.

Killua bit down on his bottom lip as realization dawned over him as he spared a glance at the grandfather clock: two, nearly three hours had passed since he began and he had yet to return home. In a hurried panic, Killua scrambled to his feet, plucking the foul-smelling head off the floor and collecting the body left in the bedroom – he was uncertain of the impulse encouraging him to unroll the blanket to wipe the trail of blood in the hall, or the small puddle in the bedroom, or as to why he expended his time to deposit the body, head, and blanket in a neglected dumpster behind the building. In the back of his mind, he wanted the children to suspect one of the parental figures had just left early than confronting the reality that the body was tossed in a putrid, odorous canister.

In his return home, his mind was tormented by the burden of producing a plausible lie to sway his father’s sharp, stern expression over his lack of success for a relatively easy task. Dreading the scenario playing in his head, he did not return to the mansion but rather swerved through the thick canopies and foliage to find Mike. The hound stopped nibbling on a human leg to greet one of its owners with a silent, unmoving stare; Mike did not react as Killua gripped his fur to steady himself as he climbed onto his back.

Mike resumed eating, permitting his owner to lie on his back, not responding when Killua spoke to no one in particular before addressing him with a question: “Do you mind if I sleep here? It kinda stinks though, but it’s better than home.”

At the stroke of midnight, Killua’s eyelids fluttered open, roused awake by the unfamiliar sounds of low, weeping noises around the proximity. Rubbing his eyes with his sleeve, Killua rose forward, giving the area a brief, visual sweep to detect the source of the racket, the lingering drowsiness faded into melded horror to spot the two children lying on the ground, their ankles inflammed by a series of needles submerged into their skin, a strip of black tape over their mouths.

Illumi craned his head, greeting his sibling. “Ah! You’re awake! I completed the mission for you, but Kil, you should never leave midway, it would upset the family,” Killua did not have time to react before Illumi flicked his wrist, the needles between his fingers propelled into one of the boys, “it is such a shame, perhaps I was being too lenient?”

Illumi yanked the child by the collar of his shirt, raising his arm to present the state of the deformed victim to Killua: the enlarging lumps on his face hideously pulsated, the other visibly trembled to forcibly witness his friend’s face mutate grotesquely, his mouth fumbling behind the tape to form a scream of terror.

“This could have been a companion of yours, Kil,” he tore his gaze from a shaken Killua gripping the fur tightly in his fists. Illumi lowered his arm to toss the child haphazardly beside his friend before regarding Mike with a simple, efficient order: “You can eat them.”

The vibrant green grass was splashed by a coat of red when Mike unhinged his jaw to chomp half the body of the two children, Killua regained his senses to jump off the hound in a last minute sprint to salvage the few seconds he could have to save the two boys,

his legs gave in when he knew he was too late to spare them, their half consumed bodies slumped to the ground, the faintly visible glimpse of Mike’s teeth was coated by blood, strips of skin, the crackling bones resonating in the heavy, glooming silence of the barren night.

And when Killua was taken by the hand, he was guided through the large yard, to the mansion, and to his room, the willpower to crush the fingers entwined with his or the intention to sink his claws in his brother’s palms waned – the resistance, any resistance he posed, was a vain struggle he could not—nor could he ever, he acknowledged dejectedly—win against.

He felt like a ragdoll complying to his brother’s whims: he did not inch away or seethe when Illumi raked his fingers through his hair, or when his fringes were swept aside so Illumi could lean forward and kiss his forehead, eventually the hands cupping his face parted from his cheeks as his brother bid him a fond goodnight. The silence of his dismissal departure was disturbed by the jarring creak of the oak door reverberating off the walls, his gaze shifted to the paint chipping off the intricate depressions blemished by faded marker streaks. Although faint throughout the constant abuse and neglect, Illumi's dull writing was preserved on the door: Killua’s name, his age, his growing height from age three to seven.

In slow, sluggish steps he walked over to his pile of recent gifts and aged toys, idly he flicked the zig-zagged knob attached to his bulky bead maze, the quiet, looming atmosphere disrupted by the beads twirling through its loops and onto its wooden base. After a few motions of toying with its blocky alphabets on its other end, Killua set his palms on his toy's tablet, his fingers twitching under the surface as his face contorted into a series of abysmal expressions: the fine line of his frown was replaced by the quiver of his bottom lip enduring the pressure of his frontal teeth sinking down on the sensitive flesh filling his mouth with the taste of copper, he crinkled his nose a few times to ward off the sting welling up in the bridge of his nose.

Emitting a sharp hiss piercing the unsettling stillness of his room, he clenched his fingers as he pried his bead maze from the hinges of the table screwed loosely and supported by its wobbly beaten, wooden legs, his chest falling and rising heavily before he hurled his toy to the window, crippling the frame with a dent but shattering the pane in entirety, the mesh torn in half by the unrestrained impact of the maze's sharp, wooden corners tearing its thin, stringy fibers. Darting through the window, and disregarding the broken fragments scraping against his clothes and skin, he clamped his hands onto the sill to writhe through the cramped space – liberated, he was able to run through the yard, the shards wedged in his legs and hands had either sunk deeper from his struggle or fell off in his dash.

In the dark cornerstones of his mind, he vividly recalled the few minutes prior to Mike's lack of mercy or compassion to consume two innocent children, how his brother did not even bat an eye puncturing one of them with his needles for no other purpose than to provide an example. Time and time again the beacon of light guided Killua to cling desperately to the notion of companionship: a friendship he never had the chance to experience without the scrutiny of his family or the imminent fate of any one person willing to associate themselves with a Zoldyck.

He had the sinking realization that he would be confined, tugged by the strings as the family's ornamental puppet—unfeeling, a tool at their disposal—rather than be part of ideal scenarios in his old storybooks evoking feelings of compassion, contentment,  

when he weighed his choices, he drew the conclusion that if the pursuit of happiness was beyond his reach—if he had no chance to obtain the laughter that would alleviate the hiccup of his family setting their burdening expectations on him, to gain or give loyalty to even _one_ person that could set aside the notorious family name and yearn for his company unconditionally with a twinkle of joy in their eyes—he thought, as he ignored Zebro's uncertained cries to snatch the fake key given to arrogant infiltrators and rushed back to storm through the intruder's door, 

there was no reason to continue following that dimming light slipping past his fingers,

not if it was just a vain, ongoing effort.

The ground shook underneath him, the rumble of the family's dog padded footsteps rapidly approaching, followed by the onslaught of rustling trees and broken forestry from his large body rampaging through the pasture to seek the intruder. Killua balled his hands into fists: it was uncertain whether the unfeeling, meticulous beast would sink his canine fangs into him as he did with the two boys, the opportunity was never attempted as every Zoldyck, without fail, would enter through the testing gates regardless of the exhaustion marring their disposition. If luck appealed to his favors, he would lower his guard to permit the family pet to eat him whole.

Illumi's lessons echoed in his head,

_incapable of making friends,_

_the cause of their eventual death._

Killua tipped his head up to regard Mike's hollow reverence with a venomous hostility lacing his throat: he screamed at the hound to feast on him, to attack him—he was an intruder, he insisted—

to end him.

Mike returned back to his den, emotionally unresponsive and unperturbed to his young owner falling to his knees, rubbing at his eyes furiously to weep openly in the decaying glade under the stark, black night.

                                                    _and hope to die,_

Gon’s elated, cheerful demeanor followed the skip in his step—in the familiar mannerisms of a small, delicate rabbit demonstrating its happiness by frolicking in mid-air leaps and body gyrations—a small noise escaped his lips as he hopped over a series of small puddles formed by the overnight drizzle, the illustrious sheen of the sunset casted an elongated shadow over Killua trailing unhurriedly behind his friend. Killua lolled his head to the side to discreetly bask in the contagiously warm and convivial surrounding atmosphere, for a brief moment he closed his eyes to take a long, quiet inhale of the fond, grassy-dewed land: the perpetual smell of the grasslands, of shrubs and evergreens, along with the rustles of wildlife galloping and swooping within the forest grounds.

Gon whipped around, walking backward as he informed Killua, “It’s gonna get really dark soon, so do you wanna switch this time? I can get the firewood, you get the fish!”

Killua reopened his eyes, momentarily startled by the loud observation and suggestion, the latter of his comment stirred a sickly twist in his belly to conjure an image of a flailing, slimy, scaly fish creature in his head – a thick lump formed in his throat as he aligned the proposition posed: to successfully catch fish, he needed a fishing rod—his mouth twitched to form a discomforted frown while Gon blinked patiently, bearing an impish smile—he needed _bait_.

_Worms._

Unable to refuse and decline a challenge, Killua responded mildly, “Sure…I can do it…”

Giggling playfully, Gon tossed his fishing rod for Killua to temporarily claim while he darted straight into the wilderness, his free-spirited charisma guided his jittery jumps, he focused his strength in his legs to hop from one mossy boulder to the next, to clamp his hands on the barks of trees and propel himself forward in the momentum of his wild, roaring leaps – playing idly in the forest exposed the quelled, festering enthusiasm he endured throughout their idyllic journey, his energy was bursting at the seams that he mentally apologized to his conscious for burdening Killua with the labor for the day while he took his time to swing from tree to tree in his childish play. Once he recognized the dark purple overcast of the night littered by tiny, bright flickering stars splayed amongst the nearly translucent smoky gray clouds, he muttered an ‘Oops!’ to himself as he trekked the lumpy, rocky trail to search for large barks or a few twigs to aid their campfire.

Amused, he snickered: Killua must have stomped his foot angrily at some point, or growled indignantly when he reeled the empty line of an escaped fish, or even had his expression contort in disgust as he planted himself on his knees, digging small little holes, the bed of his fingernails caked with dirt before goosebumps erupted on his arms when he brushed against the flesh of earthworms. Gathering enough wood that could fit in his arms, Gon slowly burst into a gale of laughter: Killua must have also been absolutely revolted to pluck a worm out of the ground and pinch its skin against the hook-

Gon blinked slowly,

a needle whirred a little under his ear, puncturing the tree ahead of him.

“You have become very tiring to keep track of, irritatingly so,” Illumi quipped, brushing aside a low-leveled branch in his approach, he was unfazed by the clamor of wood tumbling to the ground or the heated glare of determination when Gon turned around to face him directly. Illumi disguised his disdain for his opposing hindrance with a neutral expression, but a minor epiphany claimed his focus momentarily: Gon lacked the endearing quality of his sibling.

Gon’s sharp glower was fueled by his past indignation against him in contrast of the captivating, cowering dilation ever present in Killua’s faltering features. Gon poised himself ready to protect, to defend, _to fight,_ his knees buckled as if anticipating the necessity to sprint at him directly, his stature gruelingly small yet his righteous energy presented an attitude of bold, reckless fury. His posture was firm, his gaze observant, his will unyielding, his concern for his well-being in the presence of someone he could knowingly concede was stronger than he was stubbornly non-existent,

and Illumi detested him.

When his mind generated the ideal image of Killua, he could visualize the beads of sweat trickling down the sides of his face, his shoulders hunched to conceal his crippling composure, his visible inner struggle that spurred the misery lining his glimmering, watery irises – young, shrinking, and drowning in his cowardice, his eyelashes would be clumped into spikes as he tried to bat away his forcibly repressed emotions. Killua would breathe in shallow gasps, his clenched hands curling against his clothes, and just as slowly he would bite down his bottom lip, his nose crinkling as his chest would begin to heave in rapid, convulsing twitches,

because he knew his limits, he would not oppose those limits, he was _compliant,_

and Illumi adored him.

“What do you want this time!” he barked.

Illumi hummed patiently. “Does it matter? Or are you willing to heed my advice to sever your ties with Kil?”

Gon huffed resentfully, he set his finger under the orbit of his eyes to tug the skin down and stick his tongue out, mockingly he shot back, “Not even in a million years, so you can just forget it!” Gon retracted his hand, brazenly he pointed his thumb against his chest. “If you want to get to Killua, you’ll have to get through me first!”

“If you insist.”

Gon’s moxie was undeterred by his failed attempts to compel Illumi to follow him further into the forest, he persisted in his assault to land a clean punch to the eldest Zoldyck, yet his determination faced the hurdles of his rapid strikes being dodged or Illumi catching his wrist to throw him like a weightless doll against a tree. Gradually but surely Gon reduced himself to loud hisses when he experienced the prick of tiny needles puncture his body upon impact, his skin felt the semblance of touching a radiating flame, his sensitivity met peril as his knees and arms suffered a progressive inflammation, but despite all odds he refused to yield,

he could not permit Killua's life to be handed over to a group of people that would not treat him like an actual human,

_like an actual kid._

In his bated breath he sprinted forward, echoing a loud battle cry as he took a grand leap in the air, gathering his nen in his fists that he knew would possibly be sensed by Killua if he was within the proximity.

But as the opportunity presented himself, Gon was defenseless as he choked midmantra: the needles struck his wrists, his chest, his face, his collarbone,

his neck.

Gon’s limp, swaying body nearly collided against the dusty terrain—he could still feel his legs! A wave of relief overcame him to shakily hoist himself back to his feet and flee the scene—if he could not protect his best friend, he could warn him, his closing passageways would not overpower his will to disclose his last resolve.

Although as confident as he steeled himself, his vision split into doubles until it gradually transitioned into dizzying blurs of clarity and obscurity, he could smell the burnt remains of firewood and roasted fish, his footsteps were heavy enough to alert Killua from his content disposition to alternate to a mock anger for being kept waiting. The teasing joke readily prepared diminished, Killua distinguished the silhouette of Gon’s limping form, the moon's dull glow emanated an ample light to provide him a sight only found in his darkest nightmares: it was realized, it was no longer a scenario generated from sleepless nights where he would eventually be woken up by Gon’s concerned wails.

He was startled into reality when his wrist was grabbed weakly, Gon could only mouth the words of a name that sent shudders down his spine.

And it was then when Killua watched the life in Gon’s eyes dissipate.

                                                                                                           _stab a needle,_

Killua whispered denials under his breath, refusing to believe the bulging hand clamping his trembling wrist had fallen limp and lifeless. His quivering mouth gaped open, but a lump had formed in his throat, disabling his ability to croak his most cherished friend’s name. His silence failed to encourage the resurfacing of that mischievous nature which Gon preserved throughout their time together, believing that despite his disfigurement, his best friend would shoot forward with an apology for making an awful joke of his situation.

Killua collected his remaining courage and coughed out a nervous chuckle, shaking his friend’s cold arm in another attempt to rouse him from his disquieting slumber. The imploded corrosion of Gon’s paling skin almost concealed the shining glimmer surrounding the welts: needles, the tiniest he had ever seen, so small they could have been overlooked were he not staring straight at them, were embedded into his sunkissed skin, reddened at the tip of each protruding needle.

Plucking the handful of needles from Gon's skin and setting them atop the grass, Killua droned out the faint sound of his brother’s intentionally audible footsteps as they crushed the blades of grass beneath the soles of his shoes. An apathetic apology followed in rapid succession of his footsteps, “Sorry it took so long. He was more resilient than I anticipated. To think I almost went out of my way to strike him directly,” the last statement said in a cheerful manner. 

lllumi deigned to stand beside his younger sibling, humming contently at the sight of that hindrance to the Zoldyck heir reduced to a monstrous corpse. Offering his hand to Killua for physical support, Illumi nudged his brother's shoulders when he did not accept his kind offer. “The family has been waiting for your return,” then he paused thoughtfully for a moment before adding, “I did warn you.”

When his words earned no response, Illumi calmly beseeched his little brother. “Let’s go, Kil,” he nudged him again, “your room is already set up.”

At the first faint electric jolt crackling near Illumi's fingers from the close proximity between his hand and the electric current enveloping Killua's body, Illumi felt inclined to withdraw cautiously, retreating a single step back. He reasoned, if he ignited the fury dwelling inside Killua’s shaking form, then he would have to resort to force. This thought had him sighing through his nose disapprovingly. He had yet to and did not intend to physically harm his charming, angered brother, who idly rose to his feet, small hands balling into fists until the knuckles whitened under the strain. Silver fringes obscured his facial expression before he turned on his heels to face Illumi. Passionate blue irises that once possessed a childish, excited glimmer of joy, softening with tender patience and affection when he regarded his close friend—and Illumi noticed how Killua revered Gon with a subtle amount of appreciation, the manner in which his expression reflected genuine adoration, foraging a close bond between 'friends'—had been replaced by an empty, hollow expression, the orbits of his eyes puffed from his momentary opportunity to grieve on Gon’s behalf—

Gon could have been alive, Killua considered,

if he was not a Zoldyck,

if he could have been eaten by Mike several years ago,

_if Illumi were gone._

His gaze was devoid of the usual emotions, of the hesitation and fear, that were provoked when he encountered Illumi. In their place was resolve, etched into the deep lines of his frown, contouring the grooves of his mouth. In an instant, he dashed forward and raised his hand menacingly to hone his nails, anticipating Illumi’s reaction. As predicted, his sibling clamped down on his wrist to presumably wrench him forward, assuming his free hand would loop behind his head and puncture his skin with a needle in an attempt to subdue him.

In the fraction of a second Killua could detect the arm swiping at him, he swiftly ducked before he was caught in a vice grip. He took advantage of Illumi’s baffled confusion to sink his claws in the collar of brother’s shirt, his bent knees unfolded to provide him a leap in his step to rake the tips of his sharpened fingernails over Illumi’s neck to the tip of his chin, the electrical discharge he released from his attack immobilized him enough for Killua to snatch the bulbous needles attached to the green vest piece before hopping back a few steps.

The octaves of his voice had sunken in a melancholic tenor as he directed a curt reminder of a far off memory to his brother steadily regaining his bodily sensations, “Do you remember when we were always in the playroom?”

Illumi tucked his hands behind his back, drawing his needles, and discreetly pinpointing the areas necessary to hinder Killua's efforts to put up a struggle. To distract him, he humored the question without his former smile or change in tone, “How could I forget our daily routine of having different plastic vehicles pressed against my face?”

Ignoring his jibe, Killua advanced slowly. “Remember when we played darts a long time ago? You said I was a natural,” he balanced several needles between the slits of his fingers, fiddling them with a shake of his wrist.

The perimeter Illumi mapped around the space between them was treaded, the three needles in his possessions were swung with a flick that, under ordinary perception, could have been fatal – Killua, however, caught two of the three, one whizzing around his face, the other two caught between his digits as he predicted the movements of the projectiles swung at him. The electrical static snaked down his elbows, around his forearms, and flowed in a circular motion around the thin needles. “Maybe I’m rusty at this, who knows?”

Infusing his quickened mobility, Illumi could not dodge his own weapons embedded in his shoulders or his calves, he blamed his momentary lapse of awe over Killua’s growth that he was unable to detect the blurry sight of a roundhouse kick to his gut, his stumble backwards did not reach the ground as Killua’s graciously caught him by the throat, his sharpened nails crushing his windpipe, ripping through flesh for the red to seep down his pale, unrelenting fingers.

“I think I got the hang of it,” Killua cooed maliciously, “this time I’ll get it right in the center.”

Shoved forward onto the terrain, Illumi endured Killua shifting his posture to be straddled on his chest, his grip on his neck displayed no indication of conceding to his conscious—‘Never kill anyone in the family’—yet Killua's demented, ecstatic grin would not waver, his breaths deep and prolonged as he leaned forward, brushing the tip of the needle gently in small circles around his older sibling's jaw, over his cheek, around a sharp curve over the bridge of his nose,

to his eyelid.

In his acute, disturbed state of mind, Killua’s shoulders rose and fell in his chuckle as he shoved the steel tip straight into Illumi’s pupil, he pressed his thumb down on the circular head to relish the needle’s smooth descent through the cornea. “Did you _see_ that Illumi! I’m a natural after all!”

_in your eye._

**Author's Note:**

> let me sing grace these are the most illumi focused episodes i will ever get in my life if i die young bury me in satin lay me down on a bed of killumi doujinshis
> 
> also behold an editing process tidbit between me and this [weeiner](http://mystia-katsuragi.tumblr.com/)  
> 


End file.
